Excess
by Sionnain
Summary: She loves the way he sprawls in insolent languor on the chair, pulling strings so their assorted company dances like puppets before the king’s throne. Emma FrostXSebastian Shaw. Oneshot.


**Excess**

_Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes._  
---Marquis de Sade

Emma sits on Sebastian's lap, inhaling the sharp scent of his cologne and feeling the scratch of his trousers beneath the slick skin of her thighs. His hand rests lightly on her waist, and his fingers press too hard into her skin where the flimsy white corset doesn't cover. The room is cool enough to make her acutely aware of how warm Sebastian's body is beneath her. She shifts on his lap and surveys the scene spread out before her of the Hellfire Club at play.

Everyone is drunk or otherwise impaired by things far more illegal than booze. Henry Leland and Jason Wyngarde are talking about world domination and tobacconists and poor brandy, though it's unclear what any of that has to do with each other. There are people Emma doesn't know sprawled on one of the low couches, drinking absinthe like they're nineteenth-century poets and watching each other with wild eyes. Their huddled forms and low, manic laughter puts her in the mind of an opium den. She has an amusing image of all of them collapsed on harem pillows, draped over each other with languid limbs and unfocused eyes.

Everyone except for her, of course. Emma likes to keep her wits about her in these types of situations, when everyone else is so keen to lose theirs as soon as humanely possible. Besides, if she's of a mind to sink into oblivion with the rest of them, all she has to do is open her mind just a little. Then they'll all pour in, every last one of them with their grandiose dreams of power and their veins sluggish with opiates and alcohol, and if she wants she could drown beneath the wave of their hedonistic pleasures. 

That is very rarely what she wants, though there is some relief in all the jagged edges of their thoughts being softened by the substances they're so readily and eagerly consuming. Maybe that is her indulgence, then, to be spared their barbed-wire sharp ruthlessness even if it's just for a few hours.

Sebastian's holding a glass of wine lazily, his head turned and lying against her shoulder. He looks for all the world like a dissolute rake surveying his kingdom of reprobates, but Emma's not fooled. She knows what he's doing. It's the benevolent lord of the manor routine, granting the grateful courtiers whatever they desire so that they will concede to his authority when the time comes.

"So easy, Emma, isn't it?" he murmurs, and his breath against her skin stirs her blood in a way that the alcohol never does. She finds Sebastian as intoxicating as a deep rich merlot. She loves the way he sprawls in insolent languor on the chair, pulling strings so their assorted company dances like puppets before the king's throne. "A few drinks, some illegal substances, and they'll do whatever we wish. Lovely women parading around, wearing next to nothing, to distract and tease…" his lips brush against her skin, and he nips her neck before leaning back in the chair. "It's almost pathetic, if you think about it."

Emma makes a small noise of assent and settles back, breathing in the excess as it settles around her like a shroud. There's smoke in the room and laughter edged with desperation, and she can feel Sebastian's satisfaction as he watches, eyes heavy-lidded and amused.

There's one thought, though, that doesn't blend so well with the others. In a swirl of pleasure and want and self-indulgence, there's a sharpness that rises like a shoal hidden underneath murky water. Emma straightens as Sebastian reaches out, his glass half-filled with wine he will not drink, towards the source of that sudden anger.

Sebastian has dressed her in blue tonight, which pulls the highlights from her blue-black hair and causes her skin to glow like porcelain. Her boots, like Emma's, rise to the thigh in a smooth twist of supple leather. Her arms are ensconced in sapphire satin up to the elbows, but her face is a study in dissatisfaction.

"Wine, my dear Sage," Sebastian drawls, still nuzzling at Emma's neck. She can feel him smile against her skin. He holds his glass out and sloshes it, just a little, as if he wants someone to think he's too inebriated to hold the glass.

Emma raises her gaze and meet's Sage's cool glare across the room. She doesn't know exactly why the other woman hates her. Perhaps she envies Emma's position as Queen to Sebastian's King. Perhaps she wants to be on Sebastian's lap. Emma doesn't think that's really a problem—if Sage wished it, Emma's fairly sure Sebastian wouldn't say no. Emma might not, either—it would bring her no small satisfaction to drag her nails down the other woman's lily-white skin. It's too bad Sage never wants to play quite as much as the others.

Emma doesn't think Sage's hatred has much to do with Sebastian, though likely it would insult him to know that. There's something else beneath her disdain; a purpose that's darker than lust or intoxication or any of the other pursuits in which the others are currently engaged. Emma's not sure what it is, but she'll figure it out eventually. It intrigues Emma in a way all this pointless self-harm does not. Sage wants something much more than what Sebastian is providing, and she's willing to parade around half-naked and trussed up like a strumpet to get it, even though it's obvious Sage doesn't relish the role quite the way Emma does.

Emma tries once more to probe Sage's mind for this elusive information, and again she's met with the strangest feeling of being pushed back, away, as if someone has safeguarded Sage's mind from Emma's telepathy. It is of no matter; there are other ways of finding out information besides mind-reading. When Emma finds out Sage's secret, she may just share this information with Sebastian. Then again, she might not. It all depends on whose interest this information will best serve. Emma's not the White Queen because she looks this good in a corset.

It's because she knows how to play the game.


End file.
